Page 108 of When Lemons Give You Life

He’s quiet for a moment. “But don’t you want a shot at a relationship with her?”

“Desperately. But that’s not the point anymore. It can’t be about what I want. This way, she gets what she needs. A kidney. A clean slate. No guilt, no explanation, no weight around her neck. She can think it came from someone else and get on with her life.”

Scotty’s voice dips. “But what’ll I do without you? You’re the only one who’s ever . . . got me. What if the new boss doesn’t?”

“You don’t need to worry about that. I have something else in mind for you, kid. Like I’ve told you before, you’ve got skills, Scotty.”

He nudges me with his shoulder. “Me? Pull the other one.”

“I’m serious. I believe in you, mate. You’re destined for big things. As soon as I clear my dementia diagnosis, I’m going to line you up with an apprenticeship at Lorraine.”

“But won’t you have to tell?”

“Not everyone. My sous-chef owes me her career; I’ll swear her to secrecy. She adored Beau, and she’ll understand my reasons.”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“You’ll be a paid apprentice. Proper wage. Far better than what you get here.”

The left corner of his lip begins to curl. He tries to keep it down, but it wins, pulling the rest of his mouth into a broad smile. “Me? Lorraine? That’s . . . that’s like three hats, right? I dunno if I—”

“Trust me, you’ve got more instinct than most of the junior chefs I’ve trained. Everything else you need to know, you’ll learn on the job.”

“I’m not sure what to say, Griff. Will you still visit?”

I stare at the big block of parmesan behind his head, willing it to give me words, but the cheese doesn’t want to lie either. “C’mon, let’s head to my room.”

We don’t say much on the walk back; the sticky air clings to us in the silence.

“Want to watch something?” he asks.

We turn on the telly, but not even a sitcom can make me laugh today. When the credits roll, we stand, and I stare at the couch cushions carrying the impression of two men who have been saved by food and each other. “Scotty?”

“Yeah?”

“I won’t be able to, sorry.”

“What’s that?”

“Visit. Not where I’m going. I’ll need to move away for good.”

He looks down at his Crocs, a tremble in his lip. “I understand, chef, and thank you. Thank you for everything.”

“It’s my pleasure—you were so easy to teach.” My mother’s words echo in my ears, and I find myself repeating them to Scotty. “You are going to change people’s lives with food, mate.”

I offer a handshake, but he barrels into me with a chest-cracking, full-body hug. “You damn pineapple.”

70

Griff

How to convince someone you’ve been faking dementia for the past year?

Step one: make direct eye contact with a staff member and sound as lucid as a Nobel Peace Prize winner. I don’t need to think twice about who my subject will be.

Allison sits at her desk, radiating cheap perfume and self-importance. I sit opposite; she barely glances up, her gum snapping between chews. “Hello, Greg. You must be lost.”

“I know what you did, Allison,” I murmur.